Even the truest letters are, in my opinion, only corpses: they describe a life that inhabited them, and whether or not they look like the living, the moment of their life is already past. But for that reason, it seems to me (when I read what I wrote a while ago) as if I saw myself lying in my coffin and my two Is stared at each other in amazement.

It is strange that the imagination is the most productive when it finds no outer objects: then it creates objects itself and forms them all the more carefully, because there is no foreign material, but only its own children. There is no poetry in enjoyment (reality kills the dream), only in longing[.]

A little while ago I was able to wander in a beautiful sublime fantasy world, in Ossian’s half-dark magical world. But the blessed dreams dissolve; they seem like love potions - they intoxicate, exalt and then disappear, that is the misery and wretchedness of all our feelings. With thoughts it is no better: one easily overthinks things to the point of staleness.

[E]ternity is in dreams, the calculation of time does not count there. Holiness is in dreams, and all holiness is only dreamt – eternity is the land of dreams[.]

Each interesting piece of knowledge, feeling or experience, if others don’t share it with me, is a mountain that separates me from those with whom I would like to join.

I usually carry around a quiet little chamber in my mind in this life; in it I live an isolated, separated, happy life interested in and loving some person, an idea, a science, or an art. Because I linger much too much in this cosy little corner, I am stupid and strange with the world and people, and am always too clumsy to treat them as one should.

I love immensely to see myself reflected in others; for I hope the other will let me see a more beautiful image than I see in myself.

I have always read biographies with a peculiar joy, and in doing so it always appeared to me as if one could not invent a complete person; one only ever discovers one side and the complexity of human existence is never achieved[.]

Everything that was created is good, says the holy writing; why not human beings only? Why should they be otherwise than they are? Strange! - This fills me with sorrow. To slaughter one's sensations and wishes on the altars of necessity or morality, one calls that virtue.